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LONG    LANCE

underneath his capote he carried the child in its
moss bag.

When the people of our camp came out to
meet this strange company of two living and
one dead, he handed the baby to his wife and said:

'Here is our child; we will no longer have need
for a strange woman in our lodge/

Eagle Plume's wife cradled the child in her
arms and warmed it to her bosom; and our old
people said that the fires of maternity kindled
in her at the touch of the Infant,, and that milk
for its sustenance flowed in those breasts that for
so long had been dry.

That night as we sat around the camp fire and
Eagle Plume told his story with all the graphic
detail of an Indian recital^ a big wolf cried its
deep-throated howl from a high butte that over-
looked our camp.

'Mokuyi!—It is he the wolf!' cried Eagle
Plume. Then raising his hand,, he declared: 'I
shall never kill another; they are my brothers!3

And on the instant he turned to the child and
christened him, Mokuyi-Qskon,, Wolf Brother, and
he was known by this name until he was eighteen.

The child grew and flourished. He became a
great chief; and his name is to-day graven on a
stone shaft which commemorates the termination
of inter-tribal Indian wars in the North-West.

2IO